“Are there any requests?” She asked as a woman smiled and dropped several banknotes into the open case.

Before she could further contemplate this odd behavior, the door slammed open, assisted by the force of a blustery gale. The door slowly closes, shutting out the howling winds, and a disheveled soldier in dirty tabard enters. He wore the colors of the capitol hold, gold, silver, and turquoise, though his uniform was frayed and his beard unkempt. His hair was a golden hue, like most citizens of the northern kingdom, but his skin was an umber color, like the denizens of Eurithania and the Colby-Nau Elves of Rhode. Morana found herself fixated on his eyes, sharp and cunning, hiding wounds that would cripple any other creature. About his head hung an oppressive aura, replete with obligatory imps hanging about his neck and shoulders. Morana steals glances at him from the corner of her eye, following his path towards a secluded booth in the back of the room. He looks up, as if feeling her gaze upon him, and their eyes briefly meet. Morana quickly averts her gaze, just in time to see several more imps scurry into the room and begin attacking the other patrons.

Being of a non-corporeal nature, the tavern goers did not notice the intrusion and subsequent assault, but Morana picked up on the subtle shift in moods, the near imperceptible frowns that crossed lips. She herself had faced these demons before, those that prey on guilts, self-doubt and regret.

“On second thought,” Morana down tunes her guitar, “I have something in mind I think we all can benefit from.”

Her instrument takes on a thick and heavy sound, as if each chord traveled through a lake of molasses in a snowstorm, her arpeggios were as crisp as hail on a tin roof. Upon finishing her tuning, Morana taps the singing stone to remove the distortion effects and begins to play an acoustic song that instantly causes a silence to fall over the tavern.

 “Rhythm.” Ice crystals form from her breath as she continues to play.

From a void in the floor, a skeletal figure arises holding a black and white guitar in the shape of an arrowhead. The specter begins a long, droning riff, an oppressively heavy tone, evoking the atmosphere of a funeral.

“Drums…”

As the song builds in intensity, skeletal fist punches through the stage, rotting flesh and tattered rags blowing madly in a nonexistent breeze. It drags a five-piece drum kit up from the depths of the underworld and begins to play.

 “Bass…” icy fog slowly filled the room around her.

Morana’s skin became white as parchment, her breath shallow and ragged, she taps the singing stone again to return the distortion effects. The instruments sound takes on an oppressive tone, like the mournful howls of a lone wolf in a dying world. A skeletal bassist steps from out of the shadows, carrying with it a mystic fog that rolls along the floor. The music reached a frenetic pace, filling the tavern with the fury of a blizzard before abruptly slowing down for the first verse.

The light will wane, in coming days

But winters gloom, bring summers bloom

Morana wiped the sweat from her brow on her shoulder. The summoning would drain her life directly in such a weakened state. As the candles flickered and were blown out by the arctic breeze, she felt the fingers of death crawling up her spine, its fetid breath upon her ear.

“Six months….” It whispered hoarsely in her ear.

she shivered reflexively and slowly nodded, it was too late to back out anyway. A gentle snow begins to fall inside the tavern. The price was steeper than she would have liked. Morana glanced up to see pale figures glide across the room, striking down the imps with ghostly blades.

The wounds we bear, dull in time

This sceptic flesh, first must rot

The chains we wear, placed on fragile hearts

Forged in spring, must rust in fall

Our shackles break in winters frost

Morana shuddered, fighting back the rising sick in her throat; six months. The summoning had shaved six months from her life. She forced the thoughts from her mind and focused on her playing, the spell had been spoken, all that was left was for the summoned spirits to do their task.

When the song had ended, and the last of the demons was dispatched of, Morana ceased playing, allowing her bandmates to fade back to the underworld. The crowd offered sporadic applause and confused looks, unsure of what they had witnessed, whether it was real or imagined. Morana wobbled upon the stool, gasping for breath and dripping in a cold sweat as the illusory storm subsides around her.

“I-I’ll be taking a five-minute break.”

Morana bows and stumbles her way to the back of the room, weaving through tables of confused patrons.

How did she play a song like that with just a guitar?

I was feeling a bit depressed earlier, but now, I feel better. Isn’t that strange?

The tavern was alive with conversation about the waking dream they had just shared. Ahead, the soldier from earlier sat with his head down, contemplating a half empty mug of dark beer. Without saying a word, Morana set down her guitar and took a seat across from him. He looked up at her with bloodshot eyes, wearing an expression like he was seeing for the very first time.

“Plenty of other seats lady,” He grumbled, “let me be in peace.”

“That bartender owes me dinner.” Morana said matter-of-factly as she crossed her legs.

The soldier scoffed and took a swig of beer. “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“Curious.”

He looked up and their eyes met, hers a bright glacial blue, full of intensity, peering straight into his very essence. He shivered and quickly looked away.

“What is?”

A sinister smirk crossed her lips as the light danced in her glacial blue eyes. “Guilt, regret, depression; they weighed heavily upon you. So much so they manifested as demons and soon, they would have gained corporeal form and devoured you.”

He shivered, overcome by a sudden and pervasive chill. “Who the hell are you?”

“Morana." She replied flatly. "The song I played was a spell of banishment, and now you are in my debt.”